


You Know The Statistics

by AceyEnn



Series: August And Everything After [2]
Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Comas - Freeform, Death in Childbirth, Gen, Pregnancy, Suicide Attempt, dr. maheswaran is a good doctor but her bedside manner is a bit questionable, medical info i found mostly on wikipedia oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24885682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceyEnn/pseuds/AceyEnn
Summary: Dr. Maheswaran rarely remembers the patients who pass through the hospital. But, of course, there's an exception to every rule.(Set around chapters 2-3 of Pearl, Interrupted.)
Relationships: Past Pearl/Rose Quartz, Priyanka Maheswaran/Doug Maheswaran
Series: August And Everything After [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796716
Comments: 10
Kudos: 39





	You Know The Statistics

**Author's Note:**

> So I KNOW I should be taking a BREAK but I CAN'T, so here's this: the first side story! I wrote a good chunk of it a while back, haha.
> 
> Fair warning that I had written mayyyybe five lines for Dr. Maheswaran prior to this, so I truly apologize if the characterization is off at all! I think I did pretty okay, though. :)

Your name is Dr. Priyanka Maheswaran, and you don't usually remember patients at the hospital so vividly.

It's not that you don't care. It's simply that you see so many people every single day, and frankly, you're at the point that you're fairly unfazed by the illness and injury and  _ death _ surrounding you. You have to be, or you'd go crazy. 

And yet, here you are, still thinking about the young woman who died in childbirth back in August. Rose Quartz, just 22 years old, and yet so at peace with her possible demise. 

Her pregnancy had been rough. You’d warned her, when she first came in with complications, that she was at a high risk; when it became clear that the chances of both her and her baby surviving were very slim, she accepted it. Her serenity was almost eerie. 

Her kid, a baby boy, lived. Rose didn't.

You're acutely aware of why it’s stuck with you. Your own pregnancy is going just fine--no real complications, beyond the nasty bouts of morning sickness. And yet you can't help but be anxious, ever since she died. What might go wrong? What could happen to you? To your  _ child _ ?

You sigh, and try to go back to sleep. You don't succeed.

\---

In December, you're called into the ICU. 

You look over the patient’s information--Pearl Finnegan, age 19. The name rings a bell, vaguely, but you can't put your finger on why. Not at first.

You were briefed on the situation, of course. A fishing boat had seen her jump from a low cliff into the ocean, and by the time they got to her...well, she was half-dead already, hypothermic and not breathing. She'd coded in the ambulance, and while they'd managed, extremely luckily, to restart her heart, she was still in extremely delicate shape, still deeply unconscious.

As you enter the unit, you immediately realize why her name seemed familiar, and your heart sinks. You recognize the pale, painfully thin young woman lying in that bed.

You were never entirely clear on the exact nature of Pearl’s relationship with Rose, and it had seemed rather unprofessional of you to ask for details. But you could tell the younger girl was smitten with her from the moment you first saw her--no, smitten was understating it. 

When Rose died, you remember Pearl not processing it immediately, not  _ believing  _ it. For a good moment, she just stared, denied it--until it finally hit her what had truly happened, and she  _ screamed.  _ She was inconsolable,  _ unstable _ , and you wish you were more surprised that she did this.

\---

Less than an hour after Pearl’s admission, you see two more familiar faces in the waiting room. A friend of hers and Rose's, and one of the friend’s mothers, from what you've gleaned, clearly deeply worried. You can't say you blame them. After all, they just lost someone four months ago. And here they are, potentially about to lose another.

You greet them, and lead them back. “I should warn you,” you say, “she's in bad shape. It's still very touch and go at this point.”

As you lead them to her bed, you explain the situation.  _ Apparent lung injury resulting from inhaling seawater. Sustained a cardiac arrest en route to the hospital. Multiple rib and sternum fractures. No spontaneous respiration, minimal response to external stimuli.  _

You put it all in layman’s terms, of course. You've been working here for four years, you know making sure they understand the situation is the important thing here. 

“I know,” you sigh, “that it must be difficult to see your friend like this. You can sit with her, if you'd like--the jury’s out on whether coma patients have any awareness of their surroundings, but it's often important to the loved ones. Just don't expect a response.”

One of the women--a girl about Pearl’s age, significantly taller than her mother--simply nods, and sits in the plastic chair next to her bedside. The older woman turns to you.

“Please, do what you can,” she murmurs. She turns to her daughter, and adds, more loudly, “Garnet, I'm heading home to talk to Ruby about everything. You can stay here if you'd prefer.”

“I think I would, yes,” Garnet replies, not even looking up from Pearl.

\---

Pearl has improved a bit by morning, though not by a lot. She's still unconscious, but her reflexes are a bit better than they were when she was brought in. It's a hopeful sign, at the very least. 

Garnet visits again that morning, sitting down and talking to her friend almost as if she's liable to respond. She tells you that she's not usually this talkative--she's just very anxious, and she's worried that Pearl will freak out if she wakes up all alone.

“I'm just letting her know I'm here,” she explains.

“That's very kind of you.”

Garnet looks up from Pearl and over to you, raising an eyebrow. “You're pregnant.”

“Don't be rude. But I am, yes.”

“Tell me how that's going.”

“Fairly well. I'm doing okay, save for the morning sickness. And the baby seems healthy.” 

Garnet purses her lips, and looks back at Pearl. “Hm. Lucky.” 

Ah. Right. “I'm very sorry about your friend,” you sigh. “There was nothing we could've done at that point, but it's always tough when someone dies so young.”

“I know.”

“I'm sorry, but could you move aside for a second? I need to take her vitals.” Garnet nods and stands, moving as far off to the side as possible. 

_ Heartbeat is awfully slow. Blood pressure is on the low side. Pupils are reactive, but no spontaneous eye opening. Abnormal flexion to painful stimuli.  _ She's doing  _ better _ , comparatively speaking, but it still doesn't look good. 

You explain the coma scale to Garnet, the odds of her friend coming out of things intact. It's grim and you know it, and you can easily sense her discomfort.

“I see,” she sighs.

“I'm not saying there's no hope,” you clarify. “She's not brain dead or anything.”

“Uh. Good.” Garnet looks deeply uncomfortable, even fearful. “I'd like to sit back down now, if that's alright.”

“Give me just a bit. I just need to check a few more things.”  _ Oxygen saturation is fine for now.  _

“You might want to look away,” you tell Garnet. “I'm going to check her breathing, and I don't want to scare you if she reacts badly.”

“Okay.” Garnet turns around, staring at the clock, and you begin the test. You disconnect the tracheal tube from the ventilator, and attach the spirometer, watching carefully. 

Pearl just lies there for a second, not breathing at all. Given context, you're not all that surprised, but it's still a bad sign. There's a little part of you that always wants to just hook the patient back up to the ventilator when this happens, let them breathe, but you know you won't get accurate test results that way. You have to wait a full minute.

She takes a weak little gasp about fifteen seconds in, and your eyes widen. Her breathing is frightfully shallow and extremely irregular, alternating between hyperventilation and apnea, but there's  _ something.  _

The minute passes, and you hook her back up to the machine. “Alright,” you say.

Garnet turns back around. “I heard all that,” she tells you. “Sounded scary.”

“I'm not shocked. The good news is that she's  _ starting _ to breathe on her own, but there's no way we're weaning her off the ventilator yet--she wouldn't be getting enough oxygen, not the way she is right now.”

“I understand. Uh, I'm going to sit down now.”

“Oh, sorry. Go ahead.”

\---

Late that night, the alarms sound.

You arrive in the ICU to see Pearl seizing in her bed. The tracheal tube has been ripped from her throat, presumably by her movements. 

_ Shit. _

You get to work. Her lips are a bit bluish, and you know you need to do this quickly.  _ How long has she been like this?  _

It's a struggle to intubate her again as she convulses, but you ultimately manage. You can only hope you weren't too late. 

You pull out the velcro ties, and grab her left arm, strapping it down. Then the right, then her legs. She won't stop jerking about in her bindings, but at least now she won't be able to hurt herself. 

When you get home in the wee hours of the morning, you pass out almost immediately. It's been a long few days.

\---

Five days after being brought in, around four AM, Pearl opens her eyes. You're on call that day, and you're the first person she sees. She doesn't react at first, not really, but when you come by a few hours later, she does, turning her head a bit to look your way.

She's visibly disoriented, likely still only semiconscious, but you can't help but notice that her eyes are brimming with tears.

“Let me have a look at you,” you say. She can't speak, not with the breathing tube still in place, but she gives a slight nod, barely perceptible. She sniffles a bit as you look her over, take her vital signs.

As out of it as Pearl is right now, she's at least  _ responsive.  _

You briefly leave the room to call up her friends (family?), and are answered by one of Garnet’s mothers--the soft-spoken one with long hair. She's clearly extremely groggy, and asks what you're doing calling at this hour, but when you explain the situation, she seems to brighten. 

“We’ll be over in a few hours,” she says. “Tell Pearl I said hi.”

You head back over to Pearl. She's still blinking back tears, and has started tugging feebly at her restraints.

“Stop that,” you tell her. “Please. You're still weak.”

She grimaces, pulling harder, and you sigh heavily. It's all you can do to keep from actually rolling your eyes, but thankfully, you got pretty good at avoiding such inappropriate behavior back during your residency. 

Suddenly, Pearl stops her pulling, and stares at you, wide-eyed and obviously terrified. No, you realize--she's not staring at  _ you _ exactly. She's staring at your gravid stomach, and now she's crying in earnest, her body wracked with silent sobs.

\---

She's still not entirely lucid the next day, but you're at least able to take the breathing tube out. She coughs as you get it out, spittle spraying all over your hand. (It's not the grossest thing you've ever dealt with on the job, at least.)

“Ugh,” she groans. “Hurts.”

“What hurts?”

“All of me.”

“Well, that's understandable, given what happened.” You explain the extent of her injuries, and tell her she'll have to stay here for observation for a while. She nods numbly, and for a good while you wonder if she didn't really understand what you were saying.

Until, that is, you say how lucky she is to be alive, and pure rage flashes across her face.

“I'm not,” she mumbles. 

You don't bother to convince her that on an objective level, she is. She  _ absolutely  _ is. 

\---

You think about statistics a lot. You always have--you're a worrier by nature, and usually, the statistical improbability of many situations is calming. This time, though, it's painful.

You know the statistics. About 700 people die annually from childbirth in the United States. Conversely, drowning claims over five times more lives per year. And the fact that Pearl is recovering so well, from a purely physical perspective, is remarkable, given how bad she was when she was rushed in, how long she remained comatose. 

But statistics are not universal. Rose was just unlucky enough to be one of those 700, and Pearl…

Well, from what Garnet told you, if Rose hadn't died, you doubt she would've attempted. 

The fact remains, though, that statistically speaking, Rose isn't the one who should be dead. Not, of course, that you  _ wanted  _ either of them dead--quite the opposite. You're a  _ doctor.  _ It's your job to save lives, but sometimes...sometimes you fail. It’s only natural, but it’s awful regardless. Sure, you're mostly desensitized, but sometimes you get patients like them. A young mother who died for her son, and her lover, who wanted to die for  _ her. _

The baby inside you kicks as you walk to your car to head home. You put a hand on your belly, feeling her kick. 

It's a girl, you learned recently. Her name is Connie. You know already that you'd do anything to protect her, anything at all, and you think you sort of understand why Rose decided to keep the baby at the cost of her own life.

But you don't understand suicide, not the same way. You get it in  _ theory _ , of course, but it seems such a waste to you. Try as you might, you cannot figure out why anyone would do something so selfish.

It's none of your business, of course. You really do your best to cast aside your judgment for the sake of people’s lives, and you know things have been hard for Pearl. But she's only 19, with a whole life ahead of her, and you cannot  _ truly  _ understand, not on the level you understand Rose’s choice at least, why she decided to throw that away. 

“Doesn't she know things can get better?” you sigh to Connie, and while you know  _ logically _ that a fetus can't hear you speaking, the way she kicks you right in the bladder when you finish speaking almost makes you wonder. 

“Yeah,” you say to her, wincing and looking down at your belly. “Me too.”

\---

Two months later, you give birth. You're fine. Connie is fine. Honestly, your husband Doug was more freaked out than you were during your labor; you suppose that's just a feature of your job, being used to things of this nature. But he's fine too, now happily rocking your newborn daughter in his arms. 

You look at Connie, and you feel the strongest desire to protect her from the evils of the world. To keep her  _ safe _ . 

You can't help but wonder, in the back of your mind, if Rose would've felt the same way about her son. 

You've lost a number of patients in your medical career, just like any doctor--not due to malpractice, but simply because some patients can't be saved. Most of them, you barely remember, if you remember them at  _ all _ .

But Rose Quartz sticks with you, even now that your own pregnancy has ended so happily, and so does the girl who was so broken by her death that she tried to join her. 

(You think maybe she always will.)

**Author's Note:**

> connie is B A B E Y


End file.
